


Close Quarters

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Cadet Ellacott and Sergeant Strike [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: AU, Army AU, Christmas Smut, F/M, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Christmas in the Cadet Ellacott and Sergeant Strike world. It’s Christmas smut.Part 3 of Cadet Ellacott and Sergeant Strike. They can be read as standalone pieces, but there will be a story arc through the series.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Cadet Ellacott and Sergeant Strike [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877125
Comments: 50
Kudos: 71





	Close Quarters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heatherbee22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherbee22/gifts).



> For heatherbee22, who put the idea in my head...

“ _Fuck_ , Ellacott, you feel so good,” Sergeant Strike growled as he thrust into her again, glorying in the feel of her tight heat around him. She moaned in answer, and he kissed her to swallow the sound. The base was pretty deserted, and he was reasonably sure his only nearby colleague was probably sleeping off the delicious Christmas lunch that the canteen had pulled out all the stops to create; nevertheless, his room wasn’t far from the tiny kitchenette - well, more of a kettle and a toaster in a cupboard, really - and they weren’t managing to be completely quiet.

He’d decided in the heat of the moment - as far as decision-making had been possible in his lust-addled brain - to forego his bed, which was squeaky at the best of times. Instead he’d boosted her up onto his chest of drawers, dumping his deodorant and the couple of Christmas cards from family unceremoniously onto the floor.

The height was just about perfect, he thought now as he filled her again and again, struggling to walk the fine line between ravishing her as hard as he desperately wanted to, and not banging the furniture and indeed her back against the wall that divided his room from a mercifully absent fellow officer’s. For once he had slightly more control in her arms than he usually did, and he pulled back a little to watch her, naked from the waist down but incongruously with one sock still on, her open khaki shirt hanging from her shoulders and her T-shirt shoved up out of the way to give him access to her perfect breasts. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the pleasure he was giving her, and her hair that he’d pulled out of its bun as soon as his door was closed behind them flowed around her shoulders. He buried his face in it again and felt his control begin to unravel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sergeant Strike had awoken that morning with low expectations for his day, but with no sense of self-pity. He’d done plenty of Christmases alone during his time in the Army, and his sister and aunt had given up protesting. It was just another day, and with Lucy and her family crammed into their aunt and uncle’s little house in Cornwall, there was no room for him. Another Christmas spent on that ancient sofa, with his nephews waking him at God-awful o’clock in the morning in their high-pitched excitement, a hefty dose of his sister enquiring as to his non-existent love life and his aunt tutting sadly and quietly (she believed) every time he went out to smoke - it had not been hard to turn down the prospect. Nick and Ilsa were away this year, and that brought him to the end of his options. Or at least, the ones he was willing to even consider. After some spectacularly disastrous Christmases with Charlotte in the latter years, he was happy to let it be a quiet day.

No, Christmas alone on the base didn’t trouble him. The place was almost deserted, only a skeleton staff for admin and security, the cooks in the mess kitchen and a few fellow soldiers who stayed for various reasons of their own. Not everyone had family, and the Army was an attractive employer for those who, like Strike, determinedly sought solitude. He’d spent most of the last two days reading, either laying on his bed or sat in a corner in the officers’ rec room, stretched out and relaxed, and made himself go for the odd walk so as not to become totally sedentary. He’d seen few other people, and so it had been a shock to say the least to sit down to lunch today, looking forward to his Christmas dinner, and be confronted by Cadet Ellacott.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cadet Robin Ellacott awoke on Christmas morning determined to make the most of her first ever Christmas alone. She would not wallow, she told herself. She’d chosen this career, the Army. She’d chosen to leave her husband (not much of a choice once she’d confirmed beyond doubt that he was sleeping with someone else) and, despite her mother’s flapping anxiety, had chosen not to then return to live in Masham where she’d grown up, deeming that to be a huge backwards step in her progress towards independence.

With Matthew going back there this Christmas with Sarah, to whom he was now married and who was pregnant, Robin had decided without much deliberation to give a Yorkshire Christmas a miss this year. All the family traditions - midnight mass, the Boxing Day walk, the pub on New Year’s Eve - there was no way she would not bump into her ex-husband and his new wife repeatedly, and she knew what the small-minded people of her old town would think. Look at Matthew, settled and successful, married with a baby on the way, and look at silly Robin, who threw all that away to join the Army as a junior cadet at the age of twenty-eight, ten years late and starting from scratch. No, she wouldn’t miss all that.

Nevertheless, it was hard to feel Christmassy. It was starkly brought home to her that she had no other choices, no close friends - her older brother and his wife had a brand-new baby, and her two other brothers would be at their parents’, and there was no one else Robin knew well enough to go to for Christmas. All the friends she’d had during her marriage had been Matthew’s; she was starting again socially as well as in her career. She tried not to think about this too much, telling herself this was a positive step on her road of independence rather than a lack of options. Even so, she had retreated into herself as the base emptied, spending more and more time either holed up in her room reading and listening to music on her iPod, or perusing the base library for more books (the fiction section was neither large nor inspiring).

She knew the kitchens were putting on a lunch, so she had pulled on her khaki shirt and casual trousers, stuck on the Santa hat that her next-door roommate Callie had left behind when she went back to Gloucestershire for a family gathering, and made her way to the mess hall, hoping she would see at least a vaguely familiar face among the few remaining personnel.

To her surprise, shock and a good pulse of secret delight, Sergeant Strike was there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took Strike a moment to school his features and control the delighted grin that threatened to break out on his face. Converting it to a vaguely genial smile, he shifted along a little to make room for the cadet. Normally the mess hall was full and noisy; with so few personnel on base, only one table had been laid, and officers, juniors and admin staff would all mix where normally the instinct was to stay with their peers.

Robin hesitated, tray in her hands, but the only space left at the small table was the one the big sergeant had scooted over to make for her; it would look churlish to attempt to sit elsewhere, and so with a polite smile she set down her tray and settled herself next to him.

He was huge next to her, his thigh practically touching hers, and Robin swallowed.

“Merry Christmas, Cadet,” he said in his deep baritone, and she smiled vaguely at him.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” she replied, and bent over her plate, half hoping he wouldn’t talk to her but knowing it couldn’t really be avoided.

“How come you’re here?” he asked her as they tucked into their food. “Wow, this is good.”

Trying not to be distracted by the relish with which he attacked his dinner, Robin speared a slice of turkey and cut a piece.

“I didn’t really have anywhere to go except my small home town where everyone knows everyone else, and my ex-husband will be there with his new wife.” She pulled a face. “I’d...rather not bother.” She put her forkful of food in her mouth and made a small appreciative sound. It was indeed good.

Strike nodded, still chewing. “Same,” he said around his mouthful, then swallowed and carried on. “My sister and her family are at my aunt and uncle’s. Tiny house, small kids.” He gave a visible shudder, and Robin smiled.

“Kids not your thing, sir?”

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully. “Never have been.” He raised his mug of tea and held it out in a salute, and Robin picked hers up and clinked it against his. “Here’s to not bothering with family at Christmas.”

Robin chuckled. “I do kind of miss them,” she admitted.

The sergeant put his head on one side. “Yeah, okay,” he replied. “If I could teleport there for the afternoon and then leave again, I’d gladly go. It’s having to stay for days that makes it intolerable.”

“Exactly!” Robin exclaimed. “Someone should invent a teleporting device.”

He grinned at her, and Robin smiled back, and their eyes met in a moment of camaraderie that suddenly threatened to become something else entirely. She saw his pupils dilate, his dark eyes grow darker with a hint of intent, and heat swept through her. She cleared her throat and hurriedly dropped her gaze back to her plate lest she give her feelings away on a very public stage.

For the next few minutes, she feared that this lunch could only be somewhat strained, sat here next to the sergeant who she had to pretend to barely know, which in some ways was true but in others very much not.

It turned out not to be the awkward encounter she’d expected, however. The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial, and the sergeant chatted genially to her and the others around them. Slowly Robin relaxed. A good few of the other personnel also wore Santa hats. Everyone drained mugs of tea with their dinner, and then a discreet bottle of whisky began to make its way around the table. A cursory attempt was made to keep it hidden, although from whom, Robin wasn’t sure. She watched its progress with a slight hint of panic, unsure what to do sat next to her superior officer. She didn’t want to look like a killjoy, but it was breaking the rules—

As though he had sensed her predicament, the big sergeant took the bottle when it reached him, poured a healthy slug for himself and for her, and passed it on, leaning behind her a little to give it to the next person. His broad chest brushed against her shoulder, and suddenly Robin could smell him, musky and male, and it was all she could do not to lean back into him, press herself against his familiar bulk. Then to her shock his voice was low in her ear.

“If you don’t fancy any, I’ll drink yours.” Bottle passed, he swung back to his seat. “But give it at least a sip if you want, it’s a good whisky.”

Goosebumps washed across her from his warm voice so close to her ear, and Robin knew she was pink-cheeked; she nodded mutely and picked up her mug. She took a sip, and his eyes held hers over the rim of her mug.

“Good?”

Robin swallowed, and then swallowed the urge to cough a little and nodded. It was indeed good, warm and fierce. She’d never been much of a whisky drinker, but—

The sergeant held her gaze for just a beat too long, making heat sweep through her again, and then nodded and picked up his own mug.

“Nice hat,” he remarked casually, his voice low and gravelly, and Robin’s hand flew up; she had forgotten the Santa hat.

“I just—” She shrugged. “It’s Christmas. I just grabbed it.”

His eyes raked over the hat again, pulled neatly around her hair in its bun, and dropped to her pink cheeks. Robin’s stomach lurched as his gaze unmistakably flickered to her lips, and then he dragged his attention away. “I like it,” he muttered into his mug, and a fierce thrill ran through her. This was a dangerous game, borderline flirting in the mess hall, but he’d started it.

Heart pounding and a warm fizz of arousal in her groin, Robin bent over her plate again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Christ, Strike, get a grip._ He could not flirt with a cadet at a public dinner table. Fuck, though, what was so sexy about that hat? He was sure she hadn’t meant it to sit at such a jaunty angle, covering her hair so neatly and somehow drawing attention to the elegant column of her neck. There was something about the way the red cloth complemented her colouring, the way the white fluffy edge curved down behind her ear where he knew she tasted so good—

Strike cleared his throat and took another slug of whisky, and forced his attention back to his food. It really was a very good Christmas dinner, and almost gone now. Plates were beginning to be cleared and Christmas pudding fetched.

Cadet Ellacott pushed her plate away with a sigh of contentment. “Stuffed,” she said, and Strike grinned at her. She had almost entirely cleared her plate. He liked a woman with an appetite; picky eaters and faddy dieters made him impatient. He eyed a neglected roast potato on her plate, but felt that it would be too forward to spear it and eat it. With a jolt he realised that it was only the presence of other people that stopped him; alone with her, he’d have happily pinched it.

Alone with her, he probably would have stopped thinking about the food some time ago.

Strike cleared his throat and picked up his plate, held out a hand for hers. “Pudding?”

She looked around, startled for a moment. Strike took that moment to take a covert look at her blue-grey eyes, so beautiful, at her cheeks that were rosy from good food and whisky. She really was quite stunning.

“Um, I can—” The cadet started to push her chair back, but Strike touched a gentle hand to her arm, the briefest of brushes, then reached for her plate.

“Allow me,” he said softly, and she blushed, making his ego stretch and flex a little. He liked the thought that she might like attention from him.

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, and he nodded.

He scraped his chair back and stood, took their plates over to the refectory hatch and dumped them in the pile, picked up two bowls of Christmas pudding and set off back towards the table again. On the other side of the cadet, another young recruit who couldn’t have been more than twenty, buoyed up by alcohol and bonhomie, had struck up a conversation with her.

Strike firmly ignored the stab of something fierce running through him as he sat back down in his seat and couldn’t help shooting the young man a warning look. Cadet Ellacott was not, and could not be, his to feel possessive over. All the same, Strike had to bite his tongue so as not to tell the young man to fuck off; he set the plates of pudding down slightly too forcefully and turned to the squaddie on his other side, a man similar in age to himself, to make conversation.

He was aware, as he made polite small talk about family with his new conversational partner, of the cadet behind him; as he relaxed and enjoyed his pudding, a smile twitched across his mouth to hear her gently and skilfully hold the young man attempting to chat her up at arm’s length, keeping the conversation light and impersonal, asking politely after his family and offering up vague and brief answers to his questions until eventually he gave up.

At a natural pause in his conversation, he turned back to the cadet to ask if she was enjoying her pudding, and allowed the chat to run easily on from there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What was going on? Robin wondered. She couldn’t decide if the sergeant was being attentive to her in...that way, or just being gentlemanly. He shovelled Christmas pudding and custard into his mouth in a way that was almost obscene to her unruly subconscious, and was making her suddenly imagine the other uses to which those uneven lips could be put, that she began to fervently hope she might one day find out.

She shouldn’t have had that whisky. It had been a generous slug, but no more than that; nevertheless, Robin had few opportunities to drink here on the base, tending to prefer her own company in the evenings. Nothing made her more aware of the age difference between herself and most of the other cadets than going out with them on a Friday night, watching them glug improbably coloured drinks and talk about television programmes and celebrities she had never heard of. She would genuinely rather stay on base with a book.

She ought to feel the same way about Sergeant Strike; he was as much older than her as they were younger. But the age difference didn’t seem to matter with him. In conversation, he treated her as an equal despite their differing ranks, and she found herself opening up to him, telling him that she still harboured a dream of finishing her degree (though not why she hadn’t; hardly dinner-table-appropriate conversation) and that she had considered the Metropolitan police as a career as well.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that she enjoyed his company mentally as much as physically, but oddly it was. Suddenly Robin was glad to have had this opportunity to get to know the taciturn sergeant, with the regs slightly loosened for Christmas and a lack of routine and structure and more superior officers to keep things more formal. She ate her pudding slower and slower, not wanting the dinner to end.

She firmly ignored the fact that it was just as much a physical desire to be near him as a mental one that made her prolong the encounter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All too soon, the point arrived where they could linger no longer. Pudding bowls cleared, whisky bottle empty, people were starting to drift away.

Stretched back in his chair, replete and wishing he could undo his trouser button but unable to do so for propriety’s sake, Strike smiled at the cadet. It had been nice to be able to spend some time with her, to get to know her a little without it being awkward.

“Got any plans for this afternoon?” he asked her lazily.

She shot him a sideways glance that could have scorched the hairs off his chest, copious though they were. Her cheeks were a little pink, from whisky and good food, he’d been assuming, but after that look he was suddenly wondering if there was an entirely different reason she was feeling hot, and he felt his cock twitch hopefully at the thought.

“Not really,” she murmured. “You?”

“Well, right now I’m going out for a smoke.” Strike patted his breast pocket where his cigarettes were definitely calling to him now that his belly was full of good food and warm whisky. “But after that, no. Back to my room to read some more, I guess.” He glanced around; there was no one near, all the younger staff were headed to the rec room for a raucous afternoon of table tennis and television, and no doubt more contraband alcohol would be produced. His job as one of the more senior officers still about was to turn a blind eye, as far as he was concerned.

No, there was nobody within earshot. “It’s practically empty in the officers’ quarters,” he heard himself murmur.

She stared at him and swallowed, her throat tightening and her lips so perfectly kissable that Strike was suddenly having to adjust his stance, sit forward a little to keep everything under control.

“How empty?” Her voice was low.

“There’s one other officer here, but he’s planning to spend at least the first part of the afternoon on the phone to family,” Strike replied. “So for the next hour or so, it’s just me.”

He cast a sideways gaze at her and their eyes met in a moment of heat that sent a bolt of pure lust through him; then she nodded and got up and walked away.

It took Strike a minute or two to be able to stand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in her own room, Robin took a few deep breaths and paced up and down a little. Her book lay face down on her bed where she’d left it. Far more sensible to settle down, read a little, snooze off a frankly delicious lunch. She still had her gifts from family to open, which she’d been saving in case of a spell of low mood later in the day.

Had Sergeant Strike really just invited her to his room? Could she go?

She remembered the heat in his gaze, and desire tightened in her stomach. It had been a while since they’d— Well. Whatever they were doing, that she carefully didn’t think about too closely, it had certainly never involved any element of planning. If they were together, and an opportunity presented itself, then that was different. The problem was, without a certain amount of engineering, opportunities didn’t present themselves often. Why not arrange to meet?

It was dangerous, that was why. Maybe not so much now, with hardly anyone around, but surely there would be no way to carry on a clandestine relationship on a military base? It would only be a matter of time before they were caught. It was a madness that she could not, must not allow to continue.

She remembered his eyes, so dark and piercing, and his big hands so close to hers on the table in the mess hall, and heat flooded her again. With trembling hands, she went to brush her teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Strike sat on his bed, his book in his hands, not seeing any of the words. Heat and anticipation rolled through him, distracting him from anything other than thoughts of Cadet Ellacott, and his cock was half hard already just at the image of her. It had been sweet torture to sit next to her at dinner, with that jaunty Santa hat and the almost cheeky looks she slid his way, whisky warm in his veins, and have to keep himself under control.

He glanced again at his door, which he’d left slightly ajar so that he’d hear if the main door down the corridor opened. Would she come?

What on earth had possessed him to invite her? This way madness lay. It was one thing to have allowed a mutual attraction to take them over on a few occasions when they found themselves alone together. It was another thing entirely to start to make arrangements to meet. They could not, could _not_ , conduct an affair here. There was no way it wouldn’t become obvious to those around them, no way they wouldn’t eventually get caught. It was a ridiculous notion that he should have put the brakes on long ago.

He tried to focus on his book and tell himself he wasn’t listening for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was definitely the most dangerous thing she’d done so far in terms of getting caught. Was it absolute foolishness? She had far more to lose than the big sergeant.

And yet. Heat coursed through her veins. Robin walked down the deserted corridor towards the officers’ quarters, telling herself she could just walk on past if she saw anyone, but the base was practically deserted. Right up until the last minute she thought she might chicken out; only the memory of the heat in his gaze, the way he’d looked at her as though he wanted to devour her, kept her going. And it was the desire rising fast within her that gave her the boldness to open the door and slip in, to turn instinctively left towards the only inner door that wasn’t closed even as the big sergeant appeared and yanked the door open wider; within a moment, he’d pulled her into his room and into his arms, shoving the door closed behind them, and his fingers found her shirt buttons almost as fast as his mouth found hers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A fierce growl escaped Strike at the feel of her, the taste of her. She had brushed her teeth, but he fancied he could still taste whisky on her tongue, and her breasts were pressed against his chest as he gathered her closer, one arm around her back tugging her against him and one hand between them pulling impatiently at her shirt buttons.

“Shh,” she whispered in answer, with a low chuckle that jiggled her against him and sent lust skittering through him, and he growled again, lower. He pulled back a little and raked his eyes over her.

“Nice hat,” he murmured, grinning, and she twinkled back at him.

“I thought you might like it if I kept it on.”

“The gesture is appreciated, but now it has to go.” Strike tugged the hat from her head and tossed it over his shoulder, and then his fingers were seeking the clips and grips holding her bun in place. It was the work of a few moments to free her hair, and arousal pulsed through him again as the red-gold tresses tumbled down over his fingers and her shoulders; he rocked into her again, painfully hard already.

Her hands were on his shirt front now, undoing buttons, and he helped her, stripping off the shirt and dropping it to the floor; already she was tugging his T-shirt from his waistband and sliding her hands up inside, short fingernails scraping across skin and carding through hair, making him see stars.

Strike undid the rest of her shirt buttons and pulled the garment open, his hands going to her breasts still hidden under her T-shirt. He cupped them and then stilled suddenly, his fingers caressing, exploring.

“Fuck, Ellacott, where’s your bra?”

She grinned at him, her head dropping back as he stroked her though the thin cotton. “I took it off. Too constricting.”

He lowered his head to nuzzle at her, pushing her T-shirt up out of the way, kissing across impossibly soft skin. “God, that’s sexy. Were you wearing it at dinner?”

She chuckled, then gasped as his lips found her nipple. “What kind of woman do you think I am, sir? Yes, I wore a bra to dinner. And knickers.”

He pulled back, his eyes finding hers. “You mean—?”

She grinned impishly. “You’d better find out.”

“Don’t need to ask me twice,” he replied, grinning back at her, yanking at her belt and button, pushing her fly down. He slid his hand down inside and wasn’t disappointed; golden curls, already damp, were his reward, and another groan escaped him.

“Christ, Ellacott, you’ll be the death of me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was something different about this time, Robin thought hazily as the sergeant pushed her trousers down and she kicked off her brogues and toed off one sock. This was the first time they had met by arrangement, the first time this didn’t feel like another one-off encounter that would definitely, definitely be the last one this time. The first time that it had been half acknowledged between them that whatever this was, it was ongoing.

She stepped out of her trousers; before she could shed her other sock, Sergeant Strike was shoving the things on his chest of drawers aside and boosting her up onto it.

“Bed squeaks,” he said by way of explanation, and she grinned and helped him as he tugged at his belt and trousers; he gave a grunt of relief as his cock sprang free and then Robin was pulling him frantically between her legs and they both gasped as he thrust into her.

She slid her hands around him, fingers biting into the back of his waist and the top of his buttocks, a low moan of pleasure escaping her as he stretched her, filled her, and almost immediately pulled back and surged forward again. She tilted her head back and reached for him with her mouth; he obliged, kissing her deeply, still rocking into her, and Robin clung to him and tasted him and felt him move within her, and everything felt so good, so perfect.

He pulled his mouth away, gasping, and slid deep into her again, watching her, his eyes dark with pupils blown wide.

“ _Fuck_ , Ellacott, you feel so good,” Sergeant Strike growled, and she moaned, incoherent with the pleasure, and he kissed her again.

This was different, she thought again. Still fast, yes. Still passionate. But somehow less frantic. An acceptance existed between them now that this was something they did. She allowed the pleasure to roll over her, and felt the effect she was having on him; he buried his face in her neck again and his movements grew more jerky, his voice deeper. She could feel herself nearing the edge, knowing he was close and thrilling to the fact that she could give him such pleasure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dimly Strike was aware that he probably wasn’t being quiet enough, but he couldn’t care and certainly couldn’t stop. His control, which at least hadn’t eluded him so fast this time, was beginning to disintegrate, and he wanted to take her with him. He slid one hand from her hip around between them and ghosted his thumb across her clit, pulling back a little to watch her.

He was not disappointed; her head dropped back with a low groan as he caressed her and thrust into her again, driving her on, and he saw the exact moment her jaw went slack, felt her clench around his cock. He wanted to savour the moment, bear witness to her orgasm, but her unravelling was too much for him and he broke too, unable to withstand the white-hot pleasure that swelled up through him. With a few fierce grunts, he emptied himself into her as she gasped in his ear, and then it was over and he was slumped against her, panting, shuddering a little still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robin clung to the big sergeant, feeling his panting breath hot in her ear, his bulk still pressed between her stretched thighs. Her legs felt wobbly and she was swiftly becoming uncomfortable, wedged between his big frame and the wall, one leg hitched around his waist and the chest of drawers hard beneath her bottom, but she didn’t want him to draw away. Between the fierce thrust and give of each encounter and the enforced return to their roles here on the base existed these precious moments of gentleness that she treasured, stored up to think about later. Her hands caressed his back, sliding across sweat-slicked skin, and she turned her head and pressed her lips to his stubble, kissing him, mouthing gently at his jaw. He made no move to leave her arms, his hands on her hips gentle now, his fingers stroking, his face in her hair, in her neck, and she closed her eyes and breathed him and savoured the feeling.

She knew he felt it too. They allowed these moments to stretch a little more each time, and Robin found herself longing for— what? This was just sex, this attraction that existed between them, that they had somehow allowed to progress from a one-time thing, to another, to something that both of them knew would happen again and again. She wondered if he, too, carefully didn’t think about where they were going and how this might all end. There didn’t seem to be a way it ended well - one day they would just have to stop, and Robin definitely couldn’t think about that.

She felt him begin to draw away, and clung a little tighter. He smiled against her cheek and kissed it, then straightened up.

“You must be uncomfortable.” His voice was a little hoarse, but his questioning gaze was tender.

“A bit,” she admitted, grimacing as she unhooked her leg from around him and eased herself more upright. Her feet found the floor and she looked around for her trousers. An unexpected prickle behind her eyes took her by surprise. This was no time to start getting emotional.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cadet was reaching for her trousers, pulling them back on, and Strike watched her for a moment rather than turning away as he usually did. Every fibre of his being wanted her to stay.

 _For what?_ he asked himself scornfully. _To...snuggle? That’s not what this is, at all._

And yet he imagined climbing into his bed with her, her head on his chest, her hair draped across him, imagined falling asleep with her in his arms, waking up with her still there...

He bit his lip and closed his eyes a moment against his own stupidity, and straightened his clothing while Cadet Ellacott tucked in her T-shirt and did up her shirt buttons. All too soon, they were both redressed and there was nothing more to keep her here. She looked at him uncertainly, and this was normally their moment for a cheeky wink, a little joke to set them back on a footing of banter and help them ease back into their lives here on the base.

Instead he found himself sliding a hand into her hair that was still loose, drawing her forward to kiss her, and she melted into him at once, her arms slipping around his waist. They kissed for a few moments, and his tongue dipped into her mouth, slow and gentle, and then he drew away and smiled down at her.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and she snorted a laugh, and he grinned at her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Merry Christmas, sir,” Robin replied, amusement dancing within her now at the absurdity of their situation, replacing a feeling that had crept dangerously close to melancholy. Her body felt light, deeply sated, and suddenly she was looking forward to curling up in her room with a book, probably having a nap.

He nodded just a little, fond and amused, and Robin picked up her scattered clips and twisted her hair up as best she could. It would hold until she got back to her room.

Sergeant Strike had eased the door open and was checking the corridor; all quiet. It was the work of a few moments to slip quietly down the hall and ease open the main door; with a final, cheeky glance back, she was out into the main hallway and making her way back to the cadets’ barracks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Strike watched her go, and then closed his door. He straightened his room, replacing the things on his chest of drawers, and picked up a stray hair grip. That wouldn’t do to be caught with. He slipped it into his pocket - it could go in a central bin later. Then he spotted the Santa hat, lying where it had landed on his bed when he’d tossed it over his shoulder earlier, and he grinned.

He picked it up, turning it over in his big hands, a soft smile on his face, and then he hooked it over the metal bed post above his pillow and settled down on the bed with his book. A feeling of wellbeing overcame him, from a large Christmas dinner, a hefty measure of whisky and, well. He was asleep before he’d read two pages.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to hobbeshalftail3469 for the title, it was way better than the lame one I’d come up with, and she got it in an instant!
> 
> That’s (probably) all from Lula for 2020, folks. It’s a working Christmas in the Lula house but I will try to dip in and read people’s Christmassy things here and there. I’ve set up a Tumblr queue to post links to some of my old Christmas pieces over the festive season - @lulacat3 if you’d like to follow. Happy Christmas!


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